The Nature of Our Misery
by Creole
Summary: No one could ever understand how they worked. No one had ever tried. Nothing would change, not for them. Bickson and the Goers.
1. How It Works

Disclaimer: Squaresoft owns all; leave me alone.

Warning: dark, some naughty language, violence, possible future slash (this chapter is slash-free, and I'll include it in the warning if any ever appears)

Rating: R

Notes: Not sure where i'm going with this; may be rough as i'm just writing off the top of my head; comments & criticism greatly appreciated. This is not a love story. Get over it.

**The Nature of Our Misery**

**By Creole**

**Chapter One: How It Works**

The blitzball smacked into his forehead with a dull thud, setting off a fireworks display behind Bickson's eyes. He watched dully as the blitzball sank past his chest, his feet... He hadn't been focused; he wasn't focusing; they were counting on him; why couldn't he do it? Lights were flashing in his vision- Graav had the best throwing arm on the team- and his breath rushed out through his oxygen filter, making a commotion of bubbles. Bubbles like their lives, expanding and growing fast only to implode. Dead. They were as good as dead. This year or the next; why did it matter?

Suddenly, he couldn't be bothered to keep himself afloat anymore. Why waste the effort? That crack in him was opening wider, fissuring; the clear blue water was acid that ate into him. Wider and wider the soul-holes would open until he was gone and there was nothing left. He felt himself sinking... this faux-happiness... half a meter and he snapped back to become himself again. Ignoring the burning stares of his teammates that scored his back, he swam down to retrieve the lost blitzball. He pulled himself back into position with practiced ease, passing back to Graav's incredulous face before signaling. Again.

His teammates lost their inquisitive stares and their faces glossed over, perfect hard masks. Pros in their element. Their other selves. The selves that ruled their lives. Graav passed to him again, slower by the tiniest of increments. But Bickson could tell; he had played with this team four years now. Four years of practice to learn everything there was to know about them. To know that every unnecessary motion, every wasted effort, wasn't. That it all meant something. There was a reason. He knew that Graav, no, the team, was worried. Bickson caught the blitzball and speedily delivered it past Raudy into the goal, a shit-eating grin on his face. That was their way. Speaking without speaking. He was okay, for now. Until tonight.

The practice dragged on for another hour. Another hour of passing and blocking and scoring and swimming until you couldn't tell up from down or yourself from the water anymore. When his muscles were burning and he could barely keep afloat, he knew that it was enough. He signaled to the team and dragged himself towards the exit.

The others stiffly pulled themselves out of the water behind him; they always let him out first. Respect and all; he was the team captain. He was the captain of the best team in Spira; what was there not to be proud of? They were efficient in every way. They recognized each others' flaws and strengths and judged not. He knew that he was a conceited bastard; who was he to deny it? And his teammates had never felt the need to point it out; they knew that he knew and it wouldn't bog them down. In fact, it became a part of all of them. Of their outside selves. A perfect cover. The correct response to glory.

He smirked to himself, settling down heavily on a bench to stretch his aching legs, careful of the fresh bruises there and the pruny skin on his fingertips that he knew would tear easily for the next forty-five minutes. That was when he noticed that the others hadn't begun their usual post-practice chatter. He looked up from massaging his sore hamstring to meet the stares of the five. They looked at him in a new way, almost as if... they thought something was wrong with him. That he was slipping. He looked each of them in the eyes, challengingly. None of them could quite hold his gaze- though Doram lasted longer than the others- and in the end, he was victorious. So what if he had slipped up a little? They wouldn't win this battle; he had practiced this persona for years. He was better at this than he was at even Blitzball. And he was the best.

He delicately pried the oxygen filter out of his mouth, wincing a bit as the long end slid out of his windpipe. He placed it in the antibacterial soup that the league provided for them before plucking it out and storing it out in his locker, in the case in the back. The case with the sphere lock. Some fans are truly rabid, especially those pitiful few loyal to the Besaid Aurochs- and it was best to keep anything that they would be counting on to keep them alive locked away. The keeper of the Al Bhed Psyches a few years back had his tampered with by some disapproving Yevonites- likely one of the Goers' fans, shamefully. Everyone was too focused on the thick of the action at the oppostite end to notice him slowly turning blue as he scrabbled at the locked exit gate. It was only at after the game had ended that he was noticed. He had been floating dead for half of the game, supsended somewhere between his home goal and the midfield. No one but his teammates and a few fans showed up for his funeral, but from then on the exit gates were left open.

The others began murmuring to each other as they toweled off and changed into identical 'dry land' uniforms, occasionally including him in the conversation. Balgerda, especially, liked to ask his opinion about every subject from politics to Yevon, giving her own well-thought-out opinion as she stripped down. The women changed in the same room; there was no modesty here. The team kept no secrets from each other. But after awhile, Balgerda sensed his need for solitude. She moved maybe ten centimeters closer to the team, away from him. That was all the team needed to know how he felt. They kept to themselves.

The Goers worked like one organism; gauging each other's needs and fulfilling them, offering support when needed, the occasional outburst of violence taken as one would take a lover's kiss. Each of them had come in more than once with bruises on their bodies that people assumed came from Blitzball. How many times had Bickson run his tongue over a split in his lip to taste copper there? How many times had he lifted his head from his pillow to leave it red? The Goers were in no way violent by nature; they weren't sadists or masochists. Oh, no. The stress of the game, of the responsibilities, of pretending- sometimes they build upon you until your veneer cracks and all the ugliness that was stored away for weeks, for months, rushes, floods out. And you feel like your head will explode, like you will kill someone. Like you almost want to. A quick trip to a teammate's apartment fixes everything. One look and they know. They know because you are all part of the organism. One and the same. And they'll take your blows, knowing that it is for the good of the team, their own good. For surely the rage will eventually build in them too, and they will need you.

Within six months of forming as their generation's Goers, they bought a townhouse and split the rent. It was easier that way. Much more efficient.

But once, early on, Bickson himself lost control when the rage had him. He beat Raudy hard enough to make him cough blood, to leave an arc of red on the floor where he slid as Bickson attacked him. But Raudy never complained as he pummeled him; never a sound came from his lips until it was over. And when it was, it was only to rasp, "Get the first-aid kit." After standing for a moment, aghast at himself, he fetched the kit and washed his hands of the red stain. He wet a towel, catching his reflection in the mirror. He felt strangely cleansed; the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of weariness, but those would soon fade. He knew that he wouldn't have insomnia again for at least a month. It was very liberating, this releasing of the evil inside you. Get it all out. Kill it away.

Hearing a soft cough from Raudy, he came to himself and seized the towel and kit to inspect him. He first wiped the red from where it had dribbled down that brown chin, then gave the towel to Raudy. He slowly pushed him back to the floor from which he had risen and opened his shirt to inspect his wounds. After briefly looking him over, he motioned for Raudy to hand him the towel once more, wiping the sweat and pain off his dark skin. Fortunately, there were no open wounds that he could see. But after gently applying pressure all along his torso, he came to the conclusion that his ribs were broken, and possibly his collarbone. He felt sudden guilt; by beating Raudy this badly, he had incapactiated him. That was bad for the team. He was impeding their progress, keeping them from being at the top of their game. He fucked up.

He was, of course, quite good at first aid by then, but resetting broken bones wasn't his specialty. His eyes flashed to Raudy's, holding his gaze for a moment in unspoken apology. A nod from Raudy, and Bickson went to retrieve Balgerda, the most medically qualified of all of them.

He felt a resentment from the rest of the house; one of them had been put out of commission because he had been careless. He couldn't blame them. They had to tell the fans that Raudy was taking a break, was on vacation. And they had to hire a temp to fill his place. The temp wasn't a bad keeper, but he wasn't part of the organism. With every blocked shot, he beamed with pleasure and looked to them as if he expected praise. He didn't know that winning, that getting it right, was all they needed. That praise wasn't necessary. That the game was the focal point of their lives. He didn't understand, couldn't translate a look or a motion into words. Into action. After games, in the locker room, he would babble incessantly about how great the game had been, that they'd won, how excellent Abus's last-second score had been. And they knew that he expected praise in return for praise, for Abus to tell him how fabulously he'd blocked the ball. But it wasn't coming; in time, all that he came to expect was cold stares when he spoke out-of-turn.

By the time Raudy came back, he was out-of-sync. He was rusty. He was still good; one of the best- but not the same. He couldn't find his center, couldn't merge back into the group lifestyle. It took nearly a month for him to adjust and be re-absorbed into the organism. Ever since, Bickson had been very careful when the rage was too high. They all had been.

But he was losing his focus. He was cracking. They could all see this fracture, this hole in him. They knew. They acted as though nothing had changed, but they knew. He wasn't fighting the good fight much longer before he broke. But while he was captain, the Goers would be the best team in all of Spira. He would give them a run to remember. One that would go down in the books. Something that would make people happy. He sensed the team silently filing out the door. After sitting immobile for a few seconds, he raised himself off the bench, changed, and followed. He stepped out of the locker room to see their outside faces, the condescending smiles pasted on. The group tilted their heads ever-so-slightly in his direction, their stances asking if he was ready to play this lesser, secondary game with them. He slapped on his conceited grin and joined them. They knew his answer. He had recovered and his cracks were nicely glossed over, hidden with sarcasm and an unrelentingly cruel wit.

Perhaps twenty fans lurked outside, all of them wanting autographs, a handshake, a hug. Attention from their idols. These people lived to breathe the same air, to step where they had stepped. The Goers gave them some happiness, if only for a little while. Made them forget Sin. Forget the death. But they were like a pack of wild dogs, worrying at them like an old soup bone. Tearing them apart. Their love would drive him to an early grave, or to madness... Shaking himself free of that line of thought, Bickson casually flirted with some of the young girls in the group, sure to drop a witty line or two in order to perpetuate his outside self. The stuck-up playboy. His best role.

The team continued with their P.R. crusade, their outer shells of personality impenetrable. No one knew but them that the outside persona was only partly true. That they were an exclusive clique but for different reasons. That they hid that intense, secret part of themselves that made up everything they were.

To the delight of a few female fans, Bickson smoothed back his flaming red hair and snottily queried, "So, what losers do we have to beat for the title this time?"

He felt like his grin would break his face in two.

--------------------

Talk: I love the underappreciated secondary characters. The Goers conveniently fall into that category, which not only makes me adore them, but means it probably hasn't been done. This chapter was very dark; expect the 'mood' of the story to change often, based on my- er, Bickson's feelings at the time. But it will remain predominantly dark. I think. My first fanfic- here's hoping it didn't suck. ...No, you can't have your time back.


	2. On a Good Day

Disclaimer: Squaresoft owns all; leave me alone.

Warning: dark, some naughty language, violence, possible future slash (this chapter is slash-free, and I'll include it in the warning if any ever appears)

Rating: R

Notes: Not sure where i'm going with this; may be rough as i'm just writing off the top of my head; comments & criticism greatly appreciated. This is not a love story. Get over it.

**The Nature of Our Misery**

**By Creole**

**Chapter Two: On a Good Day**

Bickson awoke with a start, the sweat pouring off his body from the summer heat. He couldn't sleep. He felt so tense... Blitzball season would start soon. Things would only get worse. Yevon, his head hurt.

He rose from his pallet, kneading the sore spot on his forehead as he stumbled towards the bathroom. Where were his clothes...? There they were, draped over the porcelain throne. He distractedly grabbed his jersey, sniffing it as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet. It smelled well enough, and he has a migraine that he was sure would split his skull wide open. He pulled it on over his head. It smelled worse than he had thought. It was... damn. It was his day to do laundry. He wasn't sure he was up to it, but he'd do it anyway. For the team. It was a responsibility that couldn't be neglected.

He was sure that his head would explode. Graav was responsible for this. Him and his damned throwing arm. Bickson ripped off his sweatband. Still, so much pressure... even his ponytail threatened to rip out a portion of his skull. He paused disentangling his hair from his hairband long enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. Ladies' man, indeed. His eyes, streaked with red veins; his hair, greasy and tangled; his face tired and sagging, with undereye circles that belonged to an old woman. He needed to shower. But he felt how he looked, so it could wait. They didn't need to go out today, did they? He downed a double-dose of pain-relievers and decided that today was going to be one of those days.

On the bright side, the splitting pain shooting through his skull made it nearly impossible to brood. It looked like he wasn't going to be a martyr today. He seated himself heavily on the toilet lid, hissing as his tailbone came into sudden, painful contact with the edge. Fucking boxers didn't protect anything.

That's about when he noticed that his uniform shirt didn't fit properly. It was just a touch too wide in the shoulders... probably Graav's. Fuck. Well, he could go stuff himself. If he found Bickson's uniform, more power to him. And he hoped the fit choked him.

He managed to find his way to the door in the dark, stumbling clumsily down the stairs on his way to the kitchen. He needed a break from the game, time to compose himself. Time for the pain-relievers to kick in. Of course, Raudy was already in the kitchen. Sitting primly, fully clothed and drinking coffee while he read yesterday's paper. Anyone who actually enjoyed early morning should be shot. How the hell did he drag himself out of bed at- he blearily looked at the clock- four in the morning? Night. Whatever.

He dragged himself past him, wrenching open the cabinet in search of a mug. Coffee would help him; at this point he was up on willpower alone. He found a mug and turned determinedly to grasp the coffeepot, slowly pouring a cup of the sludge. Trying to ignore the fact that he still wasn't entirely comfortable around Raudy.

Raudy watched all of this with amusement, asking, "I thought you didn't drink coffee. Doesn't it make your hands shaky?"

Bickson shot him a glare, forgetting the earlier awkwardness. He stared Raudy in the eyes while deliberately taking a large gulp of coffee and making a satisfied noise. Fucker thought he knew best, did he? Bickson set his full glare upon him, all the wretchedness of that morning focused in his attack as he shot back, "We don't have practice today."

Raudy snorted. "But we do have P.R. at the cafe in a few hours."

Well, damn. He managed to choke down the rest of the coffee and started to trudge back up the stairs, intent on a shower as a prelude to the day's miseries.

Raudy called to him, "You do know that it's your turn to do laundry, right?"

Bickson could feel his teeth grinding together. As soon as his migraine faded, he would stop feeling so angry. Right? He just had to make it to the shower first.

Balgerda peered out of her bedroom, apparently roused by the noise. She stared at him as he passed, taking in his sorry state.

"Looks like someone is on his period today," she noted. The death-glare she recieved failed to faze her, and she followed him down the hallway. He stopped at his doorway, wearily turning to her.

"Look, I think I might drop dead very, very soon and I would not only like for you to leave me to die in peace, I would like to know why you are following me. I know what a glorious specimen I am this morning, and that my sex appeal is near-irresistible right now, but I don't think that you're following in order to jump my bones. What do you want?"

Balgerda looked at him as if she had never seen him before. "You do know that we have Public Relations today, right?"

He sent her a look that promised punishment during practice, turning towards his room again.

"And why are you wearing Graav's uniform?"

He slammed the door behind him, loud enough to wake the rest of the team. They could take it. The anger, slow and dull, pulsed through him.

He stumbled on air, leaning against the wall for support as he clumsily yanked the jersey off over his head. He heatedly flung it to the floor, stepped out of his boxers, and trekked on to the bathroom. That medicine must finally be taking effect; the tremors in his head had stopped. But the mind-pain returned.

He turned the shower knob, stepping under the cold spray. It was a rude awakening, so cold it almost hurt. He had forgotten how much he hated water. He viciously scrubbed at his skin with the bristle brush, scouring his flesh. He would cleanse himself. The water, so cold... it was like Spira. Everyone so cold. The dead... so cold. Sin. His job; Sin. Blitzball and Sin. Blitzball or Sin. He would cleanse himself of sin; he would cleanse himself of Sin. He would help them forget. He would make himself forget. He would hold himself, Spira, together. He continued scrubbing, stopping only when his shivers were violent and his skin was red. He turned off the shower, stepping out and toweling himself dry.

He took great care in dressing, wandering around in his towel until he found his own slightly smelly uniform, retying his hair and drawing his sweatband across his forehead once more. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked sane. He looked like himself again. The crowds would see nothing wrong. But... he looked into his own eyes, quickly turning away. When had those dark pits replaced his eyes? They looked haunted, angry. Like those of Crusaders back from battle. Certainly not like the charming captain of the Luca Goers. But he had it under control. That wasn't him, really. He was... himself. He was a flaming asshole, and a smooth-talking player. And he enjoyed it. He knew he was a bastard, but... he looked at himself in the mirror again, finding himself unable to look into his own eyes. Why? He knew that wasn't really him; he would know better than anyone. He still had good left in him, he knew it. The darkness he found was a figment, something his mind created. But it disquieted him.

Eyes show a person's character, or so his father had taught him. If someone can't look you in the eyes, they are untrustworthy and vile.

...So what did it mean if he couldn't meet his own eyes?

--------------------

Talk: This was at first a bit lighter, and was very dialogue-based. It really changed dramatically from the first chapter, and I'm not sure I liked it- hence, the angst towards the end. I keep meaning to give the story more action, to more thoroughly explain things... alas. I'm not sure I'm very good at this, but I'm not counting on this to make a living (thankfully). So no problem, right? I tried to give a vague sense of Raudy's personality here. Originally it was Doram, but I wanted awkwardness and tension between Bickson and the early-bird, so I made it Raudy. Ends up, I didn't really use it anyway. What a waste. In case you were wondering, if there is ever going to be slash in this (it's about 50-50), it isn't going to be Bickson/Raudy. And if this goes slash, don't expect it to be mushy or healthy. Or graphic. ...No one reads this anyway. The end.


	3. People Are Liars

Disclaimer: Squaresoft owns all; leave me alone.

Warning: dark, some naughty language, violence, possible future slash (this chapter is slash-free, and I'll include it in the warning if any ever appears)

Rating: R

Notes: Not sure where i'm going with this; may be rough as i'm just writing off the top of my head; comments & criticism greatly appreciated. This is not a love story. Get over it.

**The Nature of Our Misery**

**By Creole**

**Chapter Three: People Are Liars**

Bickson smiled wider, shaking hands and signing autographs. Endlessly. He looked at all the eager faces, the happy people. But who knew if they were really happy? Everyone thought he was happy. But he couldn't find it. He couldn't find anything to make him want to be happy. He would continue to destroy himself, slowly. Kill himself with this martyr-mission. The strain of working youself so hard, knowing that everyone is counting on you, needing you. He'd already come close to a nervous breakdown last practice; how much longer would it last? He was so tired... maybe soon he wouldn't have to be happy anymore... to pretend to be happy...

Maybe no one was ever happy. Maybe no one can ever be happy. Maybe everyone else is pretending too, so everything that they are doing is for nothing. Perhaps he'd been throwing his life away for nothing. Nothing could make them forget Sin. Even if Sin were destroyed... the people that died won't ever come back. And the people here will still miss them. And people will still kill and steal and rape and lie because they are filthy. Because they love to suffer and cause suffering.

He couldn't help but feel cheated, disgusted by everyone around him. He felt his life being stolen from him, stolen by these people with their gleaming eyes and wide smiles. If they were liars too... then his life had been a waste.

Balgerda nudged him sharply in the ribs, her unsubtle hint for him to stop brooding. Come back to reality; your job here isn't over yet. He accepted various bits of adoration with a duller grin, witty remarks flying out of his mouth without him even needing to think. Like a machina. Not even alive.

He tried not to snarl as an overenthusiastic fan flung herself upon him. He felt angry now, definitely. He wanted to pry her off, slap her so hard her head would spin. She didn't understand! She didn't even know him, what he was like. Instead she presumed that she knew him from watching him compete in the sphere pool, that he was okay with being hugged. She didn't know what a bastard he was, and her arms around him were proof. She bought his lie, and was lying to him and herself in thinking that she knew him. In 'loving' him. He awkwardly patted her on the back, managing to disentangle himself and wade into the thick of the crowd, putting a distance between himself and the girl. He had seen her eyes shining up at him with adoration, felt the fluttering of her little heart against his stomach.

Repulsion churned his stomach. He had looked at a little girl and hated her. She was his reason for everything. Her and all of the others, everyone who had suffered because of Sin. ...But then, hadn't he always hated them?

He had always remembered when he was young, younger even than that girl- and the Calm came. His parents were relieved. Their cowardice would no longer prevent them from giving Bickson the best blitz facilities in all of Spira. So they came out of hiding in the mainland, came back to his father's business in Luca. They didn't get a warm reception, of course; they had left. They had escaped to safety in the hills. Left everyone else behind to die. Everyone had lost someone, or knew someone who had. Everyone had suffered but them. Their wealth allowed them to escape Yevon's punishment.

So Bickson came to Luca for the first time quiet and shy and unsure of himself. But he was optimistic, like all children. It was a big city, with thousands of other children who could become his friends. He entered his first day of class with a bashful smile and a blitzball tucked under his arm. He left it blitzball-less and with a new perspective on the world. When his mom asked how his day had been, he gave her a shaky smile and went to his room to cry alone.

He remembered those brief years spent attending the most exclusive preparatory school in Luca. Years of hateful looks, sharp jibes. Years filled with longing for escape. He would sit quietly in class, wishing to be home, never speaking out-of-turn. The teachers, of course, loved him. He was so sweet, such a model student! ...Of course, that only made it worse. For every compliment he recieved from a teacher in class, it was multiplied tenfold in insults later. He formed a feeble defense, one that grew stronger over time. Soon, he could not only defend but counterattack. Every time a child lashed out at him, his sharp tongue made them pay. They learned that messing with him wasn't worth the humiliation.

The flood of insults tapered off. He was insulted less and ignored more. A lonely year spent in which no one would attack him, but no one would befriend him. The world made its indifference known.

He remembered well the layout of the playground, with the gazebo at one end and swings in the middle. He remembered the farthest end, the little brick courtyard where no one played. No one but him. He would sometimes bounce his expensive blitzball off the wall, catching it as it bounced back. Repeat. An escape from sadness. Over and over and over until the bell rang that signaled the end of his torture.

Sometimes he played City with the ants that infested a corner of the courtyard, where the wall was cracked. He would build little cities out of sticks and leaves, nudging the ants to do as he pleased. He found a beetle once that he appointed mayor. Unfortunately, he died and the citizens ate him. The ants tore the mayor apart, carrying off bits of him and dragging him down to their underground kingdom. Bickson remembered watching the ants tear off his shell, revealing the tender parts underneath. Then they began to attack in earnest, ripping out great hunks of his insides. Young Bickson had just gotten the first glimpse of the mayor's yellow guts when the bell rang. When he came back the next day, nothing was left of the mayor but his exoskeleton. He remembered the blue-black gloss of the mayor's shell, the purple splash left by his innards and mentally named him Bickson.

The crowd pulsated around him, nearly swallowing him. He knew that his silence disconcerted them. He stopped contemplating his past, announcing: "Now that my brief meditation period is over, I believe that the best team in Spira, led by yours truly, needs to grab a bite to eat."

He paused, and the crowd's cheers swelled, rising in a wave not unlike those preceding Sin. "Thank you! Thank you! Now, who is going to take home the Cup this year?"

The crowd screamed as one: "The Goers!" A few startled seagulls abandoned their perches.

Bickson turned towards the cafe, and the roaring crowd parted before him. He swaggered onward, the heat of his teammates at his back.

When he pushed open the cafe doors, the bar had been emptied of patrons, as per the team's request. Guards stood in position by the doors, locking them behind the team. Bickson gave them a nod of thanks, and headed towards the bar, where his teammates were already seating themselves. He perched on a stool between Abus and Doram, hopefully asking the bartender for a beer.

The bartender gave him his usual stern look and slipped him a water. He winked; it was a practiced joke between them. One of those tired, crippled jokes that won't die because you won't let it; one of those jokes made because there is nothing to say.

He stared at the woodgrain of the bar counter through his water glass. The wood of the counter with darker spirals, crooked lines- continuing in some untraceable but meaningful pattern. Seemingly just a bar, but once a great tree. A tree that lived and was in some far-away place before it was chopped down to come here in the form of this bar. Still a part of history, on until the wood rotted...

The bar was completely silent. They were all weary. Some more tired humor was in order.

He nudged Doram, joking, "So, do you come here often or do I only see you in my dreams?"

Her face caught fire and she stammered, "Well, um. Bickson, what are you- um, er-"

Bickson cut her off: "Couldn't help noticing how lonely you looked, babe." So it must be true, then. She must... have a crush on him? But then, he knew the game that she and Balgerda played, the crazy twittering lovesick girls. They were both heartbreakers, the two of them: efficient, ruthless, convincing. But why would she play the game now? Was she good enough to fool him? Why would she keep the mask on? Was this a test? Was she testing him for weakness, or was she an innocent girl with a crush? His mind raced, for once unable to tell the difference. Donram's eyes shone with something- was it cunning or love? He-

Abus walloped him from behind, interrupting whatever Doram may have had to say. "You know better than to play with a young girl's heart, you dirty old man!"

Bickson looked at him, startled. Abus's tone was joking, but his eyes were serious. Apparently he believed that Doram's crush was genuine. Or he was pretending that he thought so. Bickson squinted, peering into Abus's eyes in a manner that he hoped would somehow reveal his inner workings. Would he flinch, turn away? Abus held his gaze. Bickson nodded, imperceptibly. So they would keep playing the side-games, even without the outside... He put on his own mask. Whether they were genuine or not, he didn't need to know. He would act as though they were either way. The response was the same; the truth didn't matter. How convenient, though, that Abus had provided him with an escape route.

"Ah, so you want her for yourself! If I had known, I wouldn't have made the move, my smelly companion!" Bickson replied, making a deferential gesture.

Abus and Doram both choked, and Bickson felt vaguely self-satisfied. He was winning this one. He pulled them close, whispering confidentially: "Alright, I'll leave you lovebirds to it. Just don't get too graphic, eh? You might scar me." He patted Abus on the back, retreating to the relative safety of Balgerda on the opposite side.

Balgerda silently acknowledged him. Looking at her, you wouldn't know that she could ever break. Calm, collected, never a hair out of place. If he hadn't seen it himself, he would never have believed it.

He recalled the evening Balgerda chose to stay home rather than dine at the cafe with the rest of the team.

"I feel rather unwell," she had said, stoic expression in place. If she felt ill, she didn't show it. But the team knew that it wasn't physical illness she spoke of. They accepted her explanation and braved the cafe without her.

The team had become overwhelmed with fans on the way home and forced to pick their way through back alleys than spanned half the city. By the time they found their way back to the townhouse, it was technically morning. Bickson was the only one who felt the need to shower, to scrub off the stench of the people that loved them so. He had watched the others retire to their rooms before heading to the bathroom. He was reaching for the doorknob when the sound of running water and the light from under the door registered. He hesitated for a moment before entering. He knew it would be her. But he had expected to see her scrubbing furiously in the cleansing ritual that the team shared, or perhaps simply enjoying the hot water running over her skin. Not on the floor of the shower.

He was frozen in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her crumpled form. She seemed insensible, eyes staring vacantly into some other time. Bickson reached under the shower's spray, finding that it had long lost any heat. He cut off the water and slowly reached down towards Balgerda. He gathered her in his arms, wrapping her in a towel as she twitched and muttered in his arms. Insensible gibberish poured from her lips, the only lips that could pour out words cruel enough to match his own. Words smooth enough to capture your heart, jagged enough to break it in an instant.

The only sign of lucidity came when he set her down on her bed, when she clutched at his uniform and softly cried out: "Papa..." He disentangled her fist from his top, stepping back to observe her for a moment.

Bickson felt a part of him analyze her weakness, pick it apart. It was like he was very far away, watching himself watch her on the couch. All in third person perspective.

He watched Bickson watch Balgerda.

The other Bickson saw her tremble and jerk, murmuring things with no meaning. He saw her shudder and turned away.

He walked out the door without looking back.

It was funny how the team's loyalty worked. They trusted each other with their lives but never with their sanity. They were too brutal for that. There was always the game, in the pool and everywhere else.

The team would tolerate weakness, but only to a certain extent. If it became too pronounced, things were to be done. It would be handled in whatever way the team deemed necessary. That was how they worked. Only the strong survive. And they were strong, all of them. Or they seemed strong, which worked just as well.

The bartender slid their meals down the counter. Time to eat. They mechanically shoveled the tasteless slop into their mouths. The nutritionally-balanced Luca Goers fare. In preparation for the season, they were tortured with some of the worst-tasting cuisine in Spira. What a morale-booster.

Tomorrow they would head out to Kilika to pray for victory. To ask for Yevon's blessing. Or to get the approval of the Maesters, which they always had in any case. After all, they were the best Luca had to offer. The best in Spira. Worthy. That's why Yevon loved them so.

Not like Yevon had ever done anything for them, but... whatever. They'd win again this year; they always did.

He turned, hearing a thump at the window. There was the face of that girl, shining eyes and blushing face... and as she was pried away from the window, the faces of others. So that's what they were doing this for. These fucking pigs. Couldn't get enough of them, ever. Susie doesn't have a life because Mommy and Daddy are pathetic losers with nothing better to do than stalk their favorite blitz team! ...Delightful.

Fuckers.

Talk: Well, I gave some stuff on Bickson's past. I plan to bleed more of his and the other Goers' pasts over time... hopefully. The joy of unplanned storylines.

Well, thanks to my one (and only... ) reviewer, tenshi no ai, I finished this. I think I would have given up completely otherwise. On a personal note, thank you so much. Your review made me insanely happy. Even one review was enough to motivate me. And it was so very in-depth, too- I feel flattered that you took the time to write so much. Indeed, this story is very... personal. And the Psyches are arguably the coolest blitz team, but many well-written fics already cover them. I wouldn't want to infringe. And when I said possible slash... it's not what you're thinking. But it most likely won't happen; I suppose it will be a matter of interpretation.

Once again, thank you for reviewing. While I am disheartened by the fact that no one else has reviewed, I will try to force it out as long as at least one person is reading it. Thanks for your support.

Edit: Didn't preview well enough; changed a few errors and tweaked the ending. Sorry for how this chapter jumps around- I'm doubting that this series will last very long and I need to cram in backstory somehow... sigh. And yes, the ending was obvious. But I'm bad with endings, ahem. Er.


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